


Golden Boy

by SouthernContinentSkies



Category: Original Work
Genre: Betrayal - Pre-Arranged Agreements Are Ignored, Class Issues, Consent Issues, Gags, Ignored withdrawal of consent, Jealousy, M/M, Possessiveness, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Sadism, impact play - belt, sort-of friends to sort-of lovers, teenagers having sexual realizations (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:53:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27930076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernContinentSkies/pseuds/SouthernContinentSkies
Summary: On the eve of his 20th birthday, Prince Ruslan readies himself to formally come of age and put away childish things. But Dmitri, the Prince’s whipping boy and childhood playmate, turns out to be the one childhood possession the Prince can’t bear to leave behind.
Relationships: OMC/OMC, Prince/Whipping Boy
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2020





	Golden Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eirvyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eirvyan/gifts).



The mirror in Prince Ruslan’s quarters was a gaudy monstrosity of old-fashioned design. The gilt edges swirled outward from the glass in a riot of scrolls and floral swirls, culminating at the top in a bizarrely-curved ornament that, when Ruslan was younger, he had sworn was meant to be a dead duck.

Standing in front of it now, Ruslan eyed the finial with well-worn displeasure while his valet bustled around him, putting the finishing touches on his outfit. Tonight’s ball marked his 20th birthday, and Ruslan had been counting down the days for over a year. At the stroke of midnight, he would officially come of age, taking his place as Crown Prince and his father’s heir, and acquiring all the rights and privileges of adulthood - including, trivial though it was, the authority to redecorate his own rooms. His very first use of that authority would be to find a different mirror, and he was looking forward to that almost as much as anything else.

“You’re looking surprisingly solemn, Your Highness,” said a voice from behind him.

 _Almost_ as much. Ruslan turned his eyes back to the mirror to see Dmitri standing just inside the door. “Just plotting the imminent demise of this gold-plated eyesore. You’re a much better sight.”

He was, too. In contrast to the Prince’s dark hair and heavy-set features, typical of the nobility, Dmitri had the curly blond hair and knife-sharp cheekbones of a stereotypical shepherd boy - or at least, the sort of pastoral fantasy version all too frequently immortalized in porcelain. If he swapped out his court-appropriate jacket for a rough linen tunic and breeches, he’d look like something straight off of a society matron’s mantelpiece. Especially if he also tousled his hair. Dmitri’s curls were almost unfashionably long, but every time he made noises about cutting them, Ruslan frowned at him sadly until he dropped the idea. He’d spent hours, over the years, daydreaming about burying his hands in Dmitri’s hair, and the idea of cropping it short was, as far as he was concerned, absolute blasphemy.

As always when on the receiving end of a compliment, Dmitri ducked his head and blushed. Ruslan restrained himself from following up with something more explicit. It was a bad idea in front of the servants - who reported to the Steward, and ultimately the King - and his valet was still fussing at him, double-checking the placement and angle of the various medals of office on the official royal sash he was now wearing for the first time.

Technically, Dmitri was a servant as well, but as his particular position had also made him the Prince’s constant social companion, the lines often blurred. Ruslan had been eight when Dmitri had come to court, and Dmitri seven, and since then they’d barely been apart. The closeness was deliberate; King Niklas had wanted to foster a sense of compassion and empathy in his son and heir, as well as a protectiveness of the common people. Combined with the problems inherent in allowing a mere nursemaid to discipline a member of the royal family, this goal had created Dmitri’s unique position in the palace, both royal confidante and common subordinate; he was the Prince’s whipping boy.

Unfortunately for the King, the relationship between the Prince and his whipping boy had not had quite the effect he had hoped - though if Ruslan could manage it, his father would never know. Certainly they were close, and at first Ruslan had indeed been confused and distressed to see his new friend punished by the head nursemaid, or the groom, or the cook, in his place. As the Prince got older, however, he became aware that he wasn’t having quite the reaction to Dmitri’s discipline that he was supposed to. Dmitri’s gasps of pain and reddened back were still disturbing, but confusing in a new and different way, and not exactly in a way that made him want it to stop.

Finally, when both he and Dmitri were sixteen, things had come to a head. The Ambassador from Krakan had given the King a set of beautiful bay horses, and the Prince had wanted to sneak out to ride one of them. This was, admittedly, a stupid idea, and an even worse plan - the junior grooms slept above the stables; there was no time when they would be completely empty - but Dmitri had been unable to persuade the Prince to call it off. 

When they were inevitably discovered, the thrashing the head groom had given Dmitri with his riding crop made most of the others pale in comparison. Ruslan had watched the welts rising on Dmitri’s skin, his mouth dry, and despite himself had felt his trousers grow uncomfortably tight. Afterwards, sitting next to Dmitri while he whimpered into Ruslan's shoulder, running his hands through Dmitri’s beautiful hair in a way he hoped was soothing, all Ruslan could think of was how much he wanted to do that himself. Luckily, the King had assumed his avoidance of the stables after that was due to guilt, but truly it was a disquieting arousal he didn’t know what to do with, and a misplaced but fierce jealousy of the head groom.

In the four years since then, Ruslan hadn’t _precisely_ gotten in trouble on purpose just to watch Dmitri’s punishment - but he hadn’t avoided it to spare him, either. This tendency was made worse when, a time or two later, he caught Dmitri’s eye in the middle of it, only to see Dmitri flush in a way that reminded Ruslan of nothing so much as his own illicit arousal. After that, he’d felt less guilty about skirting the line, though he hadn’t yet dared proposition Dmitri outright, even for something tamer that he was more likely to accept.

But none of that could be aired in front of the servants.

“Thank you, Arnov,” he said to the valet, interrupting his fussing with the sash. “You may go.”

“Your Highness.” The valet brushed one last invisible speck of dust from the front of Ruslan’s jacket, and left the dressing room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Dmitri, who had never been able to break himself of the habit of noticing servants, watched him go out of the corner of his eye. “I’m just glad I'll be joining you at the ball, even on the sidelines,” he said. “I was halfway afraid you’d pull some prank at the last minute, and I’d end up spending the evening by myself, on my stomach.”

The Prince quirked an eyebrow at him through the mirror. “Would I do that?”

“You have before.” Dmitri looked back at him with the hint of a smile on his face: long-suffering but fond.

Ruslan widened his eyes in exaggerated innocence. “Not on purpose! And not tonight; it’s too important. For both of us.” He turned around to look at Dmitri directly for the first time.

Dmitri looked very dashing, for someone who’d spent the first years of his life on a dairy farm. His jacket and breeches were a deep blue brocade that set off his eyes, with the white cravat at his throat a sharp counterpoint.

Dmitri noticed him looking and cocked his head. “Do I meet with your approval, Your Highness?”

“Always.” Ruslan stepped closer to him, reaching out a hand to stroke the cravat with his knuckles. “This is nice.”

Dmitri shrugged, a bit self-consciously. “It was a gift from Lord Jozef.”

Ruslan’s head came up sharply. “Oh?”

“For my birthday, two months ago. It's nothing, really.”

“Hmm.” The Prince hooked a finger under the cravat, as though he were examining it, but he couldn’t help pulling it taut in his hands, driven by a sudden surge of jealousy.

“Your Highness!” Dmitri made as if to jerk his head back, but he was caught fast. “You’re hurting me.”

“Am I,” Ruslan breathed, his eyes not leaving the vulnerable dip of Dmitri’s throat - but he dropped his grip nonetheless. “My apologies.”

Dmitri coughed slightly, readjusting his cravat. 

“Dmitri,” Ruslan said slowly, coming to a decision. “Come back here, after the party.”

“Your Highness?” Dmitri looked up from his cravat, eyes a bit wide.

“Technically, your position will be obsolete, after I come of age,” the Prince said. “But that doesn’t sit right with me, after all this time. I’d like to talk to you about… what’s next.”

“Oh!” Dmitri smoothed a hand down the front of his jacket, a bit self-consciously. “Of course, Your Highness. Thank you. I’ll- I’ll be there.” 

Ruslan hoped it wasn’t his imagination, but the expression on Dmitri’s face as he closed the door behind him seemed almost… anticipatory. 

* * *

The ball itself passed in a whirl of pomp and court glitter. Every Duke and Count in the kingdom was in attendance, along with their families, as well as every lower-ranking Lord and Lady who could manage an invitation. The Prince was the center of the room, caught up for hours in the swirl of drinking and dancing, and the inevitable parade of eligible daughters. 

Several times, he looked up to find Dmitri, hanging back across the room, his eyes finding the Prince’s at the same time. Ruslan allowed himself to smile at him, just a bit, and was gratified beyond measure to see Dmitri swallow with a mouth that looked suddenly dry.

The tolling of the clock bells at midnight, and the following formal recognition and speech from the King, went off without a hitch. After another hour of mingling and accepting congratulations and well-wishes, during which the Prince was forced to employ a good deal of his diplomatic training to cover his increasing frustration, he was finally able to bid goodnight to the King and the court, and retire to his rooms.

Dmitri was waiting for him. Not outside, of course; Dmitri had long since been granted the run of the Prince’s quarters, whether Ruslan himself was there or not. He was curled into an armchair in the drawing room, thumbing desultorily through a novel from one of the nearby shelves. His cravat was loosened slightly, and he looked a bit flushed; whether from the dancing, the free-flowing alcohol, or whatever he thought about Ruslan’s invitation, Ruslan couldn’t tell.

At the Prince’s approach, Dmitri started, dropping the book. “Your Highness! I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I didn’t drink _that_ much at the ball,” Ruslan said, coming closer. “I can be discreet enough, if I like.” He bent down to retrieve the book, placing it on the end table next to the armchair - and, not coincidentally, moving close enough that Dmitri couldn’t stand without touching him.

“Your Highness!” Dmitri said, his eyes wide. “You said you wanted to talk?”

In answer, Ruslan brought his hand up to cup Dmitri’s cheek. “Sort of,” he said softly. “But not here.”

He stepped back, and crossed to the door that would lead through to his bedroom. Dmitri would know which one it was, if only by process of elimination; he’d never been inside. Yet. 

At the door, he paused and looked back. Dmitri was still sitting in the armchair, looking a bit dazed.

“Well?” Ruslan said. “Are you coming?”

Dmitri swallowed, and got up to follow his Prince.

* * *

In the bedroom, Ruslan didn’t move immediately. 

He watched Dmitri enter, looking around him with curiosity and possibly a bit of trepidation, and closed the door behind him, sliding the bolt home. He’d already given instructions to the servants that he wasn’t to be disturbed tonight, or even tomorrow morning until he called for them, but it wouldn’t hurt to make sure.

At the snick of the lock, Dmitri turned, startled. 

Ruslan smiled slightly at him in reassurance. “Just to make sure we’re not interrupted, at a potentially inopportune time.”

Dmitri drew in a breath. “Your Highness -”

Ruslan closed the distance between them, and returned his hand to Dmitri’s face. “Ruslan,” he said, “please,” and kissed him.

Dmitri’s mouth was soft under his, his lips parting almost shyly. Ruslan restrained the impulse to shove him up against the wall and ravish him properly, contenting himself with deepening the kiss before pulling back.

“I’ve wanted to do that for years,” he said, his eyes focused on Dmitri’s lips. 

“So have I,” Dmitri said, almost too softly to hear. He looked startled at his own daring.

“Oh,” Ruslan said, his thumb stroking Dmitri’s cheek. He’d thought so, but it was an unexpectedly pleasant surprise to hear it from Dmitri’s own mouth. “What a shame I waited, then.” His thumb stroked over Dmitri’s cheek. “Although, my father would have dismissed you in a heartbeat if he'd known. Now, I can keep you on directly, unless he wants to make it a Royal Edict out of it - and he won’t have a reason to, as long as we’re discreet.”

Dmitri looked up at him through his eyelashes. “Are you planning to keep me on then, Your Highness?”

“ _Ruslan_ ,” he said emphatically. “And yes. We’ll have to call the position something else, of course, but yes, I am absolutely planning on keeping you.”

The corners of Dmitri’s mouth curled, and he leaned in himself for another kiss.

Emboldened, Ruslan moved his hand to the back of Dmitri’s neck, the better to deepen and control the kiss. He lost himself for a few moments in the heat of Dmitri’s lips, and the press of Dmitri’s body against his, before pulling back again to nuzzle at his hair.

“There’s another thing I’ve been wanting to do for years,” he murmured into the side of Dmitri’s neck.

“Mm?”

“Do you remember that time in the stables, with the head groom and the riding crop?”

Dmitri tensed and jerked back, or as much as he could within Ruslan’s arms. “Your Hi- Ruslan! That _hurt!_ ”

“I know,” Ruslan said, his voice roughening a bit with arousal. “I was watching. But I was watching your face, too. Don't tell me you didn't enjoy it, at least a little bit.”

Dmitri's eyes widened, and a flush moved up his cheeks. "It - no, I-"

“I thought so," Ruslan said, satisfied. "But I'll tell you what, since you're clearly shy about it - we'll try it out, and if you hate it that much, I’ll stop.”

Dmitri hesitated. “Do you promise?”

“Of course.” It was an easy promise to make; he was entirely confidant Dmitri would enjoy himself, at least eventually.

After a moment, Dmitri nodded. The flush hadn't left his face. “I- alright then.”

“Good.” Without waiting for any further objections, Ruslan moved to undress Dmitri - starting with the terrible cravat. He began tugging it out of its knots, perhaps more vehemently than he had meant to.

“Ruslan,” Dmitri said slowly, tasting the unfamiliar syllables in his mouth. “Are you jealous?”

Ruslan paused his untying, and looked squarely at Dmitri. “Yes.”

“ _Oh._ ” It was Dmitri’s turn to be, to all appearances, pleasantly surprised.

The rest of Dmitri’s clothes went much faster, once Dmitri started helping as well. He was considerably faster with it than Ruslan, who kept getting distracted by the view.

“Aren’t you going to?” said Dmitri, when they’d finished, and he was standing naked in the middle of the bedroom with his discarded clothes strewn carelessly around them. He was looking a bit self-conscious, though his cock was already starting to harden under Ruslan’s gaze.

“Not yet,” Ruslan said absently, taking a step back to see him better. “You’re so pretty, Mitya - I’m not sure I’d be adding anything, myself.”

“Your Highness!” 

Ruslan raised an eyebrow at him, and he flushed again. Ruslan wasn’t sure whether it was on account of the compliment, the diminutive, or the nudity, but it was, as always, adorable.

“I mean that,” he said. “Now - go bend over the desk.”

A hint of nervousness crept into Dmitri’s expression, but he did as he was told.

The desk was in the middle of the room, acting as a sort of barrier between the bed and the area closer to the door. It was an expanse of polished wood, with nothing on it at present; Ruslan used his study for most things, and he had made sure to be prepared. The dark wood made a pleasing contrast to Dmitri’s pale skin. It was, Ruslan thought without surprise, a very pretty picture.

He’d thought about retrieving a riding crop from the stables, for maximum personal gratification - but as he hadn’t actually been riding in over a week, it would have been a risk. The last thing he wanted was for the King to hear about any of this, or at least the details. Perhaps he could conveniently forget to return the one he used the next time he rode out.

In the meantime, he had found an acceptable substitute in an old leather belt, dredged out of the dark corners of his closet. It hadn’t been remotely in fashion for several years, but it would serve this purpose quite adequately. He retrieved it from the drawer he’d hidden it in earlier, and approached the desk himself.

Dmitri had become tense with nerves after just these few moments, and Ruslan ran a hand down his back, gentling him.

“Shh, Mitya,” he said. “You’ll like it. I promised.”

Dmitri looked like he was forcing himself to relax.

Ruslan tried to keep his first blows with the belt softer than the typical punishment, but by Dmitri’s reactions, he wasn’t sure whether he succeeded. It didn’t seem to matter, though; when Ruslan glanced down, Dmitri’s erection hadn’t slackened.

After a few more blows, Dmitri choked back a cry. “Stop, Ruslan! I don’t like it, it just hurts!”

“Don’t you?” He reached between Dmitri’s legs. Dmitri’s cock was bent downwards by the edge of the desk, but it was still definitely hard. “Are you sure?”

Dmitri whined at the touch. “I don’t - it’s not -”

“You can’t hate it that much, Mitya,” Ruslan said, releasing him and stepping back again. “We’ll keep going, and see if that changes.”

Dmitri said nothing to that, but his cry at the next stroke was much louder.

Ruslan glanced toward the door. “Too much, Mitya. No,” he said, pushing Dmitri down again as he made to rise off the desk. “Too much noise, I meant, even with the servants warned off. We’ll have to do something about that.”

Dmitri whimpered, but stayed where he was.

Getting an idea, Ruslan crossed back to the pile of discarded clothes. The offensive cravat was at the bottom, and he retrieved it with a small smirk before returning to Dmitri.

“Here we are,” he said, stroking Dmitri’s jaw. “Open up, Mitya.”

Dmitri did, though he didn’t look happy about it, and Ruslan stuffed the cravat into his mouth.

Ruslan looked him over. “Can you breath alright?”

Dmitri made a plaintive but affirmative noise.

“Good. Now, let’s start again.”

Dmirti whined behind the gag, eyes pleading wordlessly. Ruslan, ignoring this, kissed the corner of his stretched mouth before stepping back around the desk and picking up the belt.

The next set of strokes was entirely gratifying. Ruslan had been sorry to muffle Dmitri’s noises, but with the gag in place, Dmitri apparently felt no inclination to suppress his reactions. The resulting noises were at a lower volume than before, but even more delicious.

Ruslan continued, snapping the belt across Dmitri’s ass and thighs. The red flush on them rose higher, and began to darken. The thud of the impact, and the following muffled groan or whimper from Dmitry, was music to his ears. Without the constraint of an officially-prescribed count, Ruslan found himself getting lost in the pleasure and the rhythm of it, until one particularly sharp strike brought a cry from Dmitry that penetrated even through the gag.

For a moment, Ruslan was afraid he’d pushed too far, but a look at Dmitri’s cock showed that he was still aroused, if not quite as much as he had been. In counterpoint, Dmitri’s muffled sobs continued from across the desk, obvious now that the snap of the belt wasn't competing with them.

Ruslan closed his eyes briefly, and took a steadying breath. Even that level of distress was arousing. He dropped the belt and moved around the desk again, dropping into the desk chair and pushing Dmitri’s hair back to get a good look at him.

Dmitri’s face was a mess. He had clearly been crying for some time; his face was red and tear-streaked, and the cravat in his mouth was a mess of tears, snot, and saliva. 

Ruslan was vindictively satisfied by this; there was no way Dmitri would be wearing Lord Jozef’s gift anywhere now, or at least anywhere in public. He wouldn't mind a reprise of this particular use, though. Carefully, he pulled at the cravat, tugging it out of Dmitri’s mouth.

“Alright, Mitya,” he said, stroking his face. “You were so good for me, darling. Look at you - you’re so beautiful like this.” 

Dmitri’s sobs were calming into sniffles, and he worked his jaw a bit as the gag came free.

In planning this scenario, Ruslan had become very attached the image of Dmitri on his knees with his mouth on Ruslan’s cock, but now that he was presented with the spectacle of Dmitri bent over and covered in strap marks, he found he’d changed his mind.

Or perhaps he could have both.

“Be good for me, Mitya,” he said, standing up and undoing his trousers. His erection sprang free, at roughly the level of Dmitri’s face. “Get me wet so I can fuck you, sweetheart. You won’t have to pretend you don’t like that.”

Dmitri whined, but he didn’t resist when Ruslan guided his mouth onto his cock. After a few moments, he started moving on his own, bobbing his head and making small noises that sounded considerably more enthusiastic than his earlier cries.

Ruslan tangled his hands in Dmitri’s hair, pressing his mouth closer and enjoying the sensation. After another moment, though, he pulled Dmitri off.

“Not yet,” he said, and went around the desk again.

His cock was a tight fit in Dmitri’s ass, with only spit to ease the way, but it was doable. Ruslan had to pause for a long time once he was fully inside, just to make sure he didn’t come far too soon from the pressure. The fact that he could feel the heat radiating from Dmitri’s cherry red ass and thighs did nothing for his self-control. 

After a minute, he started to move, dragging more noises out of Dmitri when he did so. His hips snapped against the welts on Dmitri’s ass, prompting whimpers of pain that mixed with his moans. It was gorgeous, and Ruslan had to bite his own lip far too hard to avoid coming sooner than he wanted.

He couldn’t hold on forever, though, and eventually his hips stuttered out of rhythm and he came with a cry of his own, filling Dmitri’s ass with his come. He stayed there for awhile, leaning over Dmitri’s back with his arms braced on the desk, collecting himself. 

Finally, he pulled out. Almost immediately, his come began to leak out of Dmitri’s hole, slightly stretched and puffy. Fascinated, he used two fingers to push it back in.

“Look at that, Mitya,” he said. “You’re so full of me you’re leaking with it. We’ll have to find some way to keep it in, next time. All day, maybe, under your clothes. Would you like that? It makes a much better statement than a cravat, don’t you think?”

Dmitri’s cock twitched, and he groaned.

“Oh, yes, I still have to take care of you, don’t I?” Ruslan continued. “Alright, Mitya. Let’s take this to the bed.”

Dmitri stood up, finally, a bit unsteady on his feet. 

Ruslan led him over to the bed. Dmitri collapsed on his side, apparently in an effort to keep both his aching cock and his reddened ass off the sheets. Ruslan undressed himself, finally, while admiring the view.

Returning to the bed, Ruslan put his hand on Dmitri’s shoulder and rolled him firmly onto his back, relishing Dmitri’s gasp in response.

“I know,” he said affectionately. “I know it hurts, Mitya. But how else am I going to get you off, hmm? Lie still for me. You’ll enjoy it, I promise.”

Ruslan eased himself down the bed, and used one hand to press Dmitri’s hips firmly into the mattress - prompting another whimper - before putting his own mouth on Dmitri’s cock.

It was an unusual sensation, but one Ruslan decided he wouldn’t mind repeating, if it always produced such wonderful noises. Dmitri clearly couldn’t decide whether the pleasure of having his cock sucked outweighed the pain of his welted ass and thighs being pressed to the bed, and his resulting groans were quite possible Ruslan's favorite reactions so far.

Eventually, the pleasure won out, and Ruslan pulled off to finish Dmitri with his hand, his come spattering across his stomach and chest. It was a pretty picture, and as much as Ruslan liked the idea of plugging him up afterwards next time, he found himself wondering what Dmitri would look like with a similar spatter across his reddened ass. Well, there would be more than one “next time;” eventually, they’d have time to try it all.

He moved back up the bed. Dmitri was breathing hard, staring off into the bed’s canopy and looking a bit lost. Ruslan pressed a kiss to his unresisting mouth, and gathered the blankets around them.

They ended up spooning, with Ruslan pressing up against Dmitri’s back harder than he needed to, just to hear Dmitri’s breath hitch. He hadn’t bothered cleaning Dmitri off; the servants would take care of the sheets, and he was enjoying the idea of Dmitri covered in come a lot more than he expected.

Dmitri stirred a bit under the blankets, making as if to move away. Ruslan drew him back, closer, making Dmitri cry out a bit.

“Shh, Mitya, I’ll take care of you, hmm?” He pressed his lips up against Dmitri’s neck, and then drew them back to press his teeth in instead, leaving indentations from dull red to purple in their wake. “As long as you let me hurt you enough to need it.”

Ruslan fell asleep with the heat of Dmitri’s back against his chest, and the music of Dmitri's soft, pained whimpers in his ears.


End file.
